


There Are No Chessboards In Hell

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There aren't any chessboards in Hell, so Nick has lucked out, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are No Chessboards In Hell

  
"Checkmate."

"_Balls_," Gabriel says, and carefully pulls his halo from around his forehead, forking it over while Adam snickers and Uriel looks marginally lest constipated than usual. All Nick does is smile as he gingerly places the halo on top of his increasingly _massive_ pile of swag, including, but not limited to: Adam's jacket, Uriel's sword, and four Jolly Ranchers that Gabriel found in his pocket.

And, of course, Gabriel's halo. Anna makes a sound in the back of her throat, sort of amused and mildly disappointed.

"Perhaps you should change the rules to 'under ten moves' instead of under fifteen," she chastises gently. Gabriel glares at her.

"Gimme a break," he growls. "It's been _sixty years_ since I last played chess! If this were poker I'd be kicking all your asses."

"Poker is a game of luck," Nick says serenely. "Chess is a game of skill." For a guy who used to basically be Lucifer's cheap suit – and not even his _first choice_ in cheap suit, just a rental – Nick is surprisingly relaxed and carefree. Adam is significantly less so – he keeps glancing towards the Pearly Gates, like he hopes that, if he keeps an eye on them, they might decide to open.

That's the bitch about Purgatory, though. You don't get to go anywhere until the Big Boss says you can. But Gabriel isn't too worried. Now that Castiel is reorganizing Heaven, he's pretty sure they'll all be given their second chances in due time.

He _really_ hopes Castiel's decided to live and let live over that whole 'trapping him in an episode of Buffy' thing.

"The only reason you're winning is because we agreed on no powers," Gabriel complains. Truthfully, though, he doesn't mind losing – Nick is a good guy, and he'll give back all their stuff once he's proven that he's the undisputed champion of chess. And besides, it passes the time.

They have nothing _but_ time, these days.

"I hope Dean is all right," Anna says softly. Dean is never too far from her mind; Gabriel has no idea what's going on down below them (metaphysically, of course), but he's pretty sure Dean isn't thinking of her. Which is tragic and sort of pathetic, not that he's ever going to say it out loud, but Gabriel supposes that that's what happens, when you die before you've ever found fulfillment.

Adam doesn't say anything. Out of all of them, only Adam was there to see the last few moments before the apocalypse was snuffed out forever. He keeps quiet about it – Gabriel doesn't blame him.

"I'm going to go wait by the Gates," Anna says softly. She drifts away like a sad ghost and, just like that, the somewhat jovial mood of before is broken. Nick doles out his winnings, giving back Uriel's sword and Adam's jacket until, eventually, it's just him and Gabriel, and Gabriel's halo sitting on the table between them.

"Do you think I'll see my wife? My daughter?" Nick asks, placing his hand over Gabriel's as he reaches for his halo. Nick's skin is dry and almost exactly ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, precisely the way it was when Lucifer first took him. His nails are short and blunt – he's got big hands, bigger than Gabriel's. Gabriel can see why his Brother would have been attracted to this man, to his body, his soul. Nick is special, even if he was never meant to be.

Gabriel gently slides his hand from Nick's grasp, reattaching and readjusting his halo. Here, in Purgatory, it's less like a circle of light and more like a laurel wreath. Nick watches him fiddle with it in silence.

"Maybe," Gabriel hedges eventually. "I mean, I don't want to be an asshole, here, but you _did_ say 'yes' to Lucifer. That's not something that's going to get you brownie points."

"He told me…"

"Let me guess," Gabriel interrupts. "He told you he'd give you something. Something you wanted. Revenge, maybe? For your family?"

Nick tilts his head to the side, listening. It's a movement that reminds Gabriel, almost painfully, of his Brothers, of Castiel and Michael and Lucifer. All of them get that same look when they're trying to understand something.

"I was grieving," Nick says slowly. "Does God expect a grieving man to make rational decisions? That doesn't seem fair."

"God isn't fair. God is God. Besides, he gave you free will for a reason. Even if you hadn't been grieving, Lucifer would have offered you something else, and you would have had the same options: yes or no. Would you have said yes if your family wasn't dead?" Gabriel shrugs. "That's not for us to know. What matters is, in that situation, with that set of parameters, you agreed to let my Brother ride you like circus pony."

"You're very blunt," Nick murmurs, and Gabriel shrugs again.

"There's no point in tact when you're dead, my friend. Actually, tact is sort of useless when you're alive, too. But I'm an archangel; I can get away with it. You, not so much."

"You are a singularly frustrating being," Nick says. "I'm not sure if I like you."

"Tough. Because you're stuck with me until dear old Dad decides what to do with us."

Nick furrows his brows in a way that makes him look more sad than frustrated, and some of Gabriel's irritation eases away. Nick's hand had been so warm, the small calluses on his palm rough against Gabriel's skin. This is just a _guy_ \- not destined for death and greatness like the Winchesters, not a prophet, not even a true vessel. He's just a guy who happened to be compatible with Lucifer, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's a guy who's made mistakes. And the whole 'humans making mistakes' thing is one of the many reasons why he went and sacrificed his ass in the first place. For their right to _keep_ making mistakes, to keep muddling along and ruining some things, and make other things better. Gabriel _died_ for that.

He cautiously reaches back across the table – he's aware of Anna's gaze boring into his back, curious and a little bit approving – and curls his fingers around Nick's wrist. Nick stares at Gabriel like he's sprouted another head and started singing a duet.

"You don't even know how to play poker, do you," Gabriel says. Nick is silent for what seems like a long time (but that might just be the whole Purgatory atmosphere), and then he nods.

Gabriel snaps his fingers, manifesting a pack of cards in his free hand. "Well, no finer time to learn, then. You look like you'd be pretty good at bluffing."

Nick hesitantly turns his hand over, their palms sliding dry against each other.

He closes his fingers around Gabriel's, and squeezes once.


End file.
